Melinda Josie

Sometimes, in shadowy first light, it even looks like a horse,
there at the end of the bed like an implement or furniture,
no horn at the center of its forehead,
no wings, only the right number of legs,
and an outline sleek with dew.
Then, long face to face, it looms above your breathing,
the separation of the eyes and its own deep breathing
meant to wake you—the animal standing there at bedside,
rocking back and forth within the stall of itself,
its fist-size nostrils hollowed out,
until, after dawn, it turns its full length around,
circles the bed as if it’s thinking, and walks
over to a wall and puts its head against it.

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